Britannia

Marcus watched as the enemy formation advanced on his position. He estimated the barbarians to be fifty meters away. Soon the order would come to throw their pila, and the battle would commence. He changed his grip on his shield slightly and shifted his weight, but he couldn’t find the right position; each felt a little awkward. He knew it was nervousness, but it was annoying as hell. He could feel several things simultaneously: the grass tickling his feet through his open-footed leather sandals, or caligae, the wind across his face, the sweat running down his back—everything. His eyes were locked on the Gauls as he watched them approach, so much that his eyes burned from the strain. Then the enemy stopped and began to shout and yell. Marcus found this part semi-amusing, the incomprehensible shouting that was meant to offend them. He laughed to himself. He thought that if they just stuck their tongues out at him he’d be more insulted. As he waited for the enemy to reach him, Marcus scrutinized the enemy’s clothing. The first thing he noticed was their linen pants, which varied greatly from man to man. The newer clothing was freshly dyed and bright, while the older were rather drab, the varying colors nearly imperceptible as they all converged into a dirty earthen brown. Marcus also noted that most Gauls were topless, both a display of their bravery and a strategy to not impair their movements when they fought. Marcus noted that none of the enemy wore armor; apparently, he thought, they still hadn’t learned its protective value. He continued to scan the barbarians and, already knowing that they wore jewelry in keeping with their wealth, easily distinguished who was higher ranked and thus a more important target. He noted that the richest among them wore gold bracelets and torcs, large necklaces typical of the Gallic soldier. As Marcus’ eyes moved up from their heavily muscled arms and chests toward their heads, he witnessed the same horrifying practice that a majority of male Gauls employed; that of washing their hair in limewater. This, he had been told, stiffened their hair and allowed some natural protection from sword blows and, though not nearly as strong as a Roman helmet, was not to be underestimated. The Gallic soldier’s armament varied slightly from man to man, as each bought his own supplies. For the most part however, each man carried a large oval shield made of wood and covered in dried hide that was then painted in bright colors. Each man carried either a spear or a long sword that hung from his belt, formidable due to its exceedingly long length and strength. Marcus watched as they lifted their large, oval shields, the sun reflecting off of the large bronze bosses protruding from their centers. The Gauls then began striking their shields with their swords and spears, accompanied by chilling howls and curses, creating an awful cacophony. Despite this spectacle designed to instill fear in their enemies, Marcus could not help but smile. These were his enemies, ready to tear his life out with a sword, but the panoply displayed by them demanded some respect. Suddenly they ceased; a few voices faded into silence after the others. They began to advance toward the Roman lines at a slow walk. Gradually, their speed increased, and soon the men charged, screaming at the top of their lungs. The surging mass lacked any form of organization; the more rapid men quickly passed the slower, which left large gaps in the oncoming charge. This is the moment, Marcus thought. He knew how the battle would play out from this moment on. First, he and his fellow soldiers would throw their pila. Then they would move into close-quarter combat; Marcus and his fellow soldiers would wear down the enemy. Once the enemy began to break and flee, the Roman cavalry would charge and pursue the fleeing. But Marcus knew it would all proceed one step at a time. As the barbarians approached to within forty meters, the commanding officers, the centurions, began to cry out the commands. “Prepare pila!” As one body, the Romans all lifted their pila over their shoulders and pivoted to the right. This maneuver placed the shields between them and the charging enemy and gave the legionnaires a better angle from which to throw their lethal projectiles. Marcus scanned the advancing Gauls and spotted his target almost immediately. The man he decided upon was somewhat tall; his helmeted head rose slightly above the others’. His bare chest supported a large golden necklace that hung around his thick neck, and golden earrings hung limply from his earlobes. His muscled arms waved wildly as the man shouted orders, revealing the numerous golden bracelets that encased his muscled forearms and wrists. When the enemy was within thirty meters, the order came to throw. “Throw pila!” As one body, the soldiers threw their pila with maximum force toward the enemy. The flight of the lethal projectiles created a bizarrely beautiful sight. Marcus watched as the pila arced through the sky, darkening it for a brief moment, and fell among the charging barbarians with terrifying velocity. The spears, a full two meters in length, impaled countless numbers of the enemy, and their bodies fell lifelessly to the ground while others ran past them, barely noticing the carnage around them. Time seemed to stop as Marcus followed his pila as it honed in on the unsuspecting Gaul, and then Marcus winced as the sharp point slit through the man’s flesh with ease. Marcus realized he had just killed another man but he didn’t let the thought disrupt his focus. It was the enemy or him.